


Shine Over Me

by Barb Cummings (Rahirah)



Series: The Barbverse [81]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Friendship, Gen, Kid Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-21
Updated: 2009-11-21
Packaged: 2017-10-03 12:07:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rahirah/pseuds/Barb%20Cummings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Spike. Angel. A porch. Like they're some kind of talking buddies or something.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shine Over Me

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set in the same universe as _A Raising in the Sun_, _Necessary Evils_, et. al. (See the [Barbverse Timeline](http://sleepingjaguars.com/buffy/viewpage.php?page=timeline) for specifics.) It contains spoilers for previous works in the series. Promptfic for Lynnenne, who wanted Spike and Angel talking and not too much angst. It occurs to me that I write a hell of a lot of ficlets set on this porch.

The first year after he became human again, Angel got a tan. It didn't last long. Old habits die hard, and he spent more years as a vampire than he'll ever spend as a mortal man. It's not that he doesn't enjoy a sunny day now and then, but he's more at home in the dark, even now. He'd find that depressing, but Cordelia had just rolled her eyes and pronounced that the last thing he needed was to celebrate his new mortality with skin cancer and premature wrinkles.

Twelve years later he sits on the porch at 1630 Revello Drive, sipping his beer and listening to Buffy and Cordelia chattering away inside, with merely human ears, no longer keen enough to pick out the heartbeats pumping beneath every word. A lemon-slice moon slides down the western sky, and yellow squares of lamplight checker the dark houses across the street. A peal of laughter rings out from the house behind him. There's an inverse square law of some kind in play here: the farther away from each other Buffy Summers-Pratt and Cordelia Chase live, the better they get along.

Of course, the same could be said of him and Spike.

The front door opens, and the porch floods briefly with light. Spike ambles out, beer in one hand and his younger son lodged securely in the crook of his arm. Alex's tousled head nods against Spike's shoulder - he's going two falls of three with the Sandman already, but he gives Angel a wide sleepy smile before burrowing into his father's chest. He doesn't seem much the worse for wear from his ordeal, but Angel's unsurprised that his parents aren't letting him out of their sight.

Spike throws a longing look at the overflowing ashtray on the railing, heaves a theatrical sigh and folds down onto the top step, lithe and athletic as ever. It's strange to think that in human years, Spike's forty. Save for a few grey hairs and the fact that he has to work harder these days to ensure that the tiny curve of tummy just above his belt buckle stays tiny, he doesn't look it. He doesn't have a tan either. Cordy would approve.

Angel watches as Spike vamps out and pops the bottletop with a fang. He raises an eyebrow. "Alexander, huh? There something Buffy's not telling you?"

Spike takes a pull of his beer and smirks. "Don't be jealous. We're saving Liam for the next girl."

It's harder to rile Spike than it used to be. Which isn't saying much considering Spike used to rip people's spleens out for chewing popcorn too loudly in the theater, but still. Woe betide anyone who suggests he's gone soft, but he's definitely mellowed out, at least by vampire standards. And the fond, sappy expression on his face as Alex makes a drowsy snuffling noise and pops his thumb in his mouth is nothing Angel can needle him for too sharply, because oh, God, he's been there.

"Heard from your boy?" Spike asks.

Angel doesn't ask which boy - as far as he's concerned, there's only one. He shakes his head. Somewhere out there, Connor's alive. He knows that for certain, now, and he's got to take comfort in that. It's a world more than he had a week ago.

Spike fidgets for a moment. "I'm perishing for a fag," he says. "Hold the sprog a mo', will you?"

He holds Alex out and Angel's too startled not to take him. He shoves away century-old memories of powder-flash and screams and the last time Spike handed him a baby, concentrating on the warm, squirmy, slightly snot-nosed toddler right here, right now. It's been years since he held Connor like this, but it's not something you forget. "Hey, there, little guy," he murmurs, and Alex blinks up at him, hazel eyes enormous. Cordy doesn't want kids, and how can he blame her, considering? She hasn't had the best pregnancy-related experiences in the world. Plus in their line of work, children are a liability - he knows that better than anyone. But he didn't get nearly enough of this, the first time.

At last sooty lashes drift down to brush rosy cheeks. When Angel looks up, Spike's flicking his lighter closed and taking a long satisfied drag. "Better," he says, blowing a smoke ring. "Going after him, then?"

Spike's never known when to give up. It's why he's lounging on a porch step with greying hair and an impossibly beating heart and children of his loins who may or may not be entirely human, instead of lingering in the endless frozen spring of vampiric youth. Angel, on the other hand, knows far too well what it means to cut his losses, when those losses have names and faces attached. "He made it pretty clear he didn't want to be found. And even if I found him, he wouldn't… here, he's asleep. Want him back?"

Spike's cigarette glows in the darkness. "Give it a bit," he says, and leans back, sending another smoke ring skywards. "He'll just wake up again if we move him now."

"He won't thank you for the second-hand smoke when he's older," Angel mutters.

"Ah." Spike exhales a languid stream of smoke, glancing at Angel through lashes just as long and dark as his son's. "You'd be surprised what sons will forgive their fathers. Given enough time."

_If they leave them alive to forgive._ They're both mortal now, and time's something they've got in limited supply, not that that ever seems to faze Spike. But...

Somewhere out there, Connor's alive. And although Spike's probably going to start annoying the hell out of him in the next five minutes, that's five minutes of peace and surprisingly decent beer he can look forward to. Angel stretches out, Spike's sleeping son blowing drool-bubbles against his shirt, and gazes up at the faint Sunnydale stars.

Maybe he'll invest in a tanning bed.

 

**END**


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